


The Death of Each Day's Life

by Ori (magnetium)



Series: Again Tonight [2]
Category: True Blood
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-17
Updated: 2010-02-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetium/pseuds/Ori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A visitor comes to the house, one night early in Godric and Eric's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death of Each Day's Life

**Author's Note:**

> A prologue to Again Tonight (helpful, but not necessary, to read first).

It is early, not quite time to emerge from the coffin. Eric lies quietly, listening to the nothingness within the small space. Outside of the house, a dog is barking somewhere in the distance. The cherry tree in the courtyard is rustling in the wind. This place of theirs is quite a change from the bustle of Lyon. They are further north now, near Bayeux, and Eric has never seen so many apple orchards or felt such calmness in the air.

There is a weight, partially on top of him, a bit to the side--it is still, unmoving. Death does not breathe, it does not shift or jostle. Eric has yet to move either, because if does so much as open his eyes, Godric will know it. He has no need to open them now, anyway. The darkness inside the coffin is absolute. He simply rests, knowing he is awake and yet existing only inside his own mind, until the last bits of sun fall away under the horizon.

He could get out now, and still survive. He'd gotten out a few minutes too early once, in his eagerness to feed. He had been young, and Godric had been teaching him how to survive on very little blood--a cruel lesson to come directly after teaching him how to glut himself on it, he thought. His senses hadn't been completely attuned to the rise and fall of the sun yet; he hadn't learned how to tell where it was in the sky simply by testing the way the air inside the coffin felt, or by consulting his internal clock. Godric was in his own coffin that evening, and had been awoken by Eric's angry cries of pain. It took Eric at least a minute to begin burning, in the weak, final rays of the day's sun, but once it began, the searing sensation on his skin had been unbearable. He'd climbed back into his coffin as fast as he could.

Eric still remembers the way the top of his coffin had opened a few seconds later, opening and closing so quickly that it seemed not have happened at all, and then Godric had been beside him in the darkness, checking him, evaluating how badly he'd hurt himself. Murmuring to Eric that it would be all right, he would heal, to block out the pain. Giving him a wrist to suckle, which almost made the entire episode worth it.

That night Godric had let him feed as much as he wanted. He'd drained two humans and moved on to a third before he was sated. The Holy Roman Empire had lost many a soldier to their feasting that year, encamped so near to Godric and Eric's home at the time, training to fight some Polish duke in a battle that had proved to be a meaningless skirmish. Everything is a meaningless fight now, every war and every battle--they all begin to blend together. Warfare became less exciting to Eric when they started using rifles, instead of swords.

The sun has gone down. Eric feels it go, and opens his eyes, unseeing in the velvety black. He still doesn't move. When they share a coffin, Godric is the one who must move first. It's his choice how long they will sleep, and when they will open the lid. There was a time when this bothered Eric, when his restlessness interfered even with submission to his maker's will, but centuries have passed and he will stay like this as long as Godric wishes it. If he is honest with himself, he doesn't really mind it. There are very few times outside of the coffin that he can be this close, this intimate with the older vampire.

There is suddenly a hand on his chest. No sensation of movement, just: there was not a hand before, and now it rests below his collarbone. He takes this as an invitation and turns, facing Godric in the dark. Arms encircle him and pull him close. If you had told him, hundreds of years ago, when he was still burdened with his mortal coil--that one day he would willingly fold into the embrace of teenage boy, and feel something like love, he would never have believed it. But of course Godric is not a teenager, and what he feels is different than love, defying description. He can't name what swells inside of him when Godric holds him and reaches up to stroke his hair, still wordless in their felt-lined box, but he knows it's there.

Finally, speech. "You woke up early."

Eric raises an eyebrow, a pointless gesture when Godric can't see him. "Was I thinking too loudly? I didn't mean to wake you."

"It wasn't you." Godric's fingers move from his hair to the side of his face, fingers tracing his ear, his cheekbone, his jawline. "The sun is tricky here. In the winter, it feels like it's gone down, but it lingers."

"As long as it doesn't come back up in the middle of the night." Eric feels a finger on his lips as he finishes his sentence, rounding the curves slowly.

"Then we would see how fast we can dig," Godric's reply comes, finger parting his lips, pushing inside just enough to touch his teeth. The finger strokes one of his incisors, a silent invitation, and Eric lets down his fangs. Godric traces up the length of each, them tests the point of one with the pad of his finger. A single drop of blood rolls back onto Eric's tongue; he moans, all his willpower concentrated on not wrapping his lips around the digit and sucking.

A moment later it is withdrawn, healed after releasing the single droplet, and it joins its brethren in ghosting over Eric's chin, his nose, his eyes. It is as though Godric is memorising the structures of his face--as if the darkness will last forever, sealed inside this coffin, and he wants to remember Eric's features.

The taste of blood reminds Eric that he is hungry. Quite hungry, given their meagre fare lately. They can't stay on this estate much longer, now that they've cleared the entire area of vagrants and travellers--it's easier in the cities, so full of people that no one will miss--and soon someone will notice that the grapes in the adjoining vineyard are rotting on their vines. Their owner was delicious, his blood fortified with years of red wine drinking, an almost sweet taste when Eric drained him. Despite his hunger, though, he will remain here as long as Godric does. He would endure far worse than this for his maker.

Eric knows Godric can sense his hunger pangs, so he isn't surprised a moment later, when he hears him say, "You need to feed."

"I'll be fine," he says, shaking his head, his face moving against the fingers that still rest lightly on it.

"Yes, but I have a treat for us tonight." Godric shifts, removing his fingers, and a moment later the lid opens. They both sit up, the spell broken. The world around them exists again.

Eric gives him a questioning look as he gets out of the box, waiting to hear what kind of treat this is. Sometimes Godric's treats are genuinely pleasurable, other times they serve to amuse the smaller vampire more than Eric. The Parisian Opera was a treat of the latter kind. Godric had thrilled at the elaborate, bejewelled costumes, and the raw, human emotion that coursed through the room as the players' voices swelled. Eric had spent the entire show deciding who he might feed on afterwards, evaluating each of the elegantly dressed women that sat below them, their opera glasses raised politely, hands raising to their hearts in delicate, enthralled gestures. In the end, however, Godric had insisted they leave immediately to obtain the sheet music for the show, so he could learn to play it before morning. That had been during the years when Godric was very taken with the piano, and especially with its use as a seducer of their victims. He would play dark, inviting harmonies that glamoured the humans he brought home, watching them swoon as he reached his crescendo; when he had finished, they would be weak under the music's spell, and Godric would cradle them in his arms, humming what he had just played as he drank from them.

Godric laughs, feeling Eric's cautious anticipation. "Don't worry, you'll like this one." He gets out behind Eric, and as his feet hit the ground, there is a knock at the front door of the house. "There it is now. Why don't you light some candles in the study? And pour some wine."

Eric watches him go, down the long, carpeted hallway. _Pour some wine._ That means Godric's treat involves a human. Perhaps he will like it, after all. He walks into the adjoining study and begins to light candles as he's been instructed, until the space is filled with a soft glow. Then he walks to the kitchen, opening the wooden panel in the floor and descending the steps to the cellar. Almost the entire length of the house is supported by heavy beams down here, and in between every beam is a large wine rack, filled with vintages that are probably rare and expensive, if the owner's decorating choices upstairs are any indication. Every room is designed with a particularly baroque flair, far too opulent for a house in the French countryside. Eric could not care less about the value of the home or the wine, but he selects the one with the fanciest-looking label and takes it back up with him.

In the study, Godric has lit a fire and is kneeling beside the fireplace, speaking softly to someone sitting on the sofa. Eric's fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle when he sees their visitor: the boy is young, just beginning to show some of the hard lines of manhood, and beautiful, in a particularly French way. His green eyes turn from Godric to gaze up at Eric as he approaches. They are glazed, matching the vacant smile on his lips.

"Eric. Meet Henri." The boy's soft brown curls fall back from his face as he tilts his head to take in Eric's frame.

Eric sets down the wine bottle, kneeling beside the sofa in a mirror of Godric, his head coming just level with the Henri's. The boy smells like bath lotion and just a touch of sweat, the scent of his blood a wild river flowing beneath everything. Eric suppresses the urge to attack him, makes himself still, watching as the boy tucks his legs under himself, curling into an almost cat-like pose.

"Henri, _c'est mon ami_ , Eric," Godric tells him, now standing to retrieve the bottle of wine and pour a generous glass from it, which he hands to Henri. "Do you remember? I told you about him."

Henri nods, taking a long sip from his glass. "I remember," he says, in heavily accented English. "He's very hungry, your friend?"

"Yes. Hungry for you." Godric sits down beside Henri, pulling the boy half into his lap, so the young human is leaning against him. He gives Eric a satisfied smile, one eyebrow raised, as if to say _"Look what I got for us. Do you like it?"_

Eric does like it. He reaches out, stroking the warm cheek in front of him, and the human sighs, leaning into his touch.

"Where did you find him?" Eric looks away from Henri to give Godric a questioning glance.

Godric shrugs--a tiny movement, barely noticeable to a human eye. "He was unappreciated by his previous patrons."

It's then that Eric notices the puncture wounds in the boy's neck. They're low, just above the collarbone, almost at Godric's usual spot, but these aren't fresh. They've had several days to heal, and Eric knows that Godric has been just as starved as he has been.

"We're not the only ones of our kind in this area," Godric murmurs, running fingers down the boy's throat, reminding Eric of the way he traced Eric's face with his fingers in the coffin. When he reaches the wounds, the boy whines softly and turns toward Godric, resting his face against the older vampire's stomach. "He won't be a full meal for both of us, I'm afraid. You should take your fill first."

Eric frowns. "You found him. He's yours to drain."

Godric moves the boy from his lap, then sits him back against the sofa and stands. "I'm older than you, and I can do with a cup of blood what you would need a bellyful to accomplish." Godric's tone is tinged with irony, as if his immense power is slightly ridiculous to him, but Eric can hear the subtle reminder in his words: _I can bend you to my will if you won't do it yourself_. Eric nods and sits in the spot Godric has vacated, taking the boy in his arms. The body feels frail, bird-like, and he melts into Eric like he's been waiting for the Viking's touch all night.

Godric sits in the armchair, its lavish material and golden rivets looking discordant with Godric's thick, simple tunic and trousers. His eyes are focused on Eric, bright in the firelight as they track Eric's movements. Eric runs a hand down the boy's torso, thumb rippling down bony ribs, down to dig into a raised hip. The boy is hard against Eric's thigh, and he almost asks Godric if he--but no, he wouldn't have. The idea of giving blood must arouse the boy. It's not unusual among those who give themselves willingly, although Eric can't fathom why. For _him_ , it is an erotic act, but as a vampire, his relationship with blood transcends that of a human: it's survival and lust and agony, all at once. Humans barely notice its presence, and unless they're glamoured to feel pleasure, the bite is painful and the draw is disorienting.

Eric wonders if this boy has ever been allowed to feel what a real vampire's bite feels like. His vacant smile as he gazes up at Eric is indicative of someone playing too long inside his head. Godric shifts in the chair, and Eric knows the other vampire can sense his intention to remove the glamour.

"Don't be any crueller than you must," comes the murmured command. "Give him some of what he came here for." The rest is unspoken, but Eric has no trouble divining the meaning: _Give me what I brought him here for._ It occurs to Eric then, that this boy is about the same age Godric would have been when he was turned. After nearly a millennia, he often forgets how young Godric really looks. His maker's face has become so familiar that he finds it hard to be objective. In many ways Godric and Henri are similar, both with oceanic green eyes, their lids perpetually touched by a slight heaviness. The boy's hair is a longer than Godric's, but the same colour. And something in him feels vaguely feral, beneath the fog of the glamour and the bits of himself that have been lost or dislodged by heavy use at the hands of someone before Eric. It is akin to the wildness that inhabits Godric, no matter how well he adopts modern customs and manners.

Eric has never quite been able to glean more than a few details about Godric's past, although he has dedicated many nights to probing, sideways conversations, both with his words and with his body, curiosity and lust spurring him on. After all those nights, Godric's human life remains a vague collection of stories that Eric can never quite connect, despite their years together. Much of Eric's frame of reference, his stories and ideas, point to his existence as a Viking warrior, but the only ideology Godric seems influenced by is his strict opposition to either of them taking on human slaves, despite it being a common enough practice among others of their kind. They've hired servants, but always paid them, never used them for pleasure and blood. _Kill, but don't own_.

Now Godric is waiting, watching as Eric slides his hand from the boy's hip to the bulge between his legs, cupping him. Henri makes a needy noise and moves against Eric's hand. With his free fingers, Eric begins unbuttoning the threadbare shirt the human is wearing. The boy is pale, unnaturally so, and he is covered in evidence of being someone's plaything. There are healing bite marks all over his torso, and little bruises clumped together, like hands have held him too hard. Eric has never been particularly concerned with a human's comfort before, but the helpless, hopeful look on Henri's face, coupled with the intensity of Godric's gaze, changes something in his manner, and he leans down to lick at one of the healing puncture wounds. His fangs are out, but he doesn't bite yet, just tonguing the white, damaged skin. When he kisses one of the bruises, he hears a sharp inhale come from the direction of Godric's chair. There is always a meaning behind a sound like that, indicating some reaction strong enough to induce an unnecessary breath, but when Eric looks up, Godric only nods at him to go on.

He kisses down the length of the boy's chest, the hunger in him stirred to a near-frenzy. Finally, his mouth and his hand move together in concert, fingers slipping into the boy's trousers as he bites into an unblemished portion of his neck. He is aware of Henri crying out and thrusting against his hand, in some dim part of his mind that isn't consumed with the taste of the blood, the feel of the blood, the hotness and richness and perfection as it fills his mouth. This abused creature is even more blood-deprived than he appeared, and Eric can tell that in another minute, he'll be drained. He knows Godric should drink, too, should be the one that finishes him, but the draw is too intoxicating. He can't pull away, even as he tastes the little flutters of desperation from the boy's heart as it fights against him--the only part of his body that still struggles for life.

Suddenly, Godric is pulling him off the boy, one strong hand in his hair, and an arm around Henri as he moves him away from Eric's hungry mouth.

"Don't kill him," he says.

It takes a moment for the blood haze to lift, and then Eric is ashamed. Of course his maker can take what he needs from Eric, but there is an unmatchable pleasure in drinking from a warm human body, the blood still hot and fresh.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, letting Godric have the boy as he gets up from the sofa, a little confused. He hasn't lost control like that in a long time. He stretches out by the fire, tongue still seeking the last traces of rich saltiness in his mouth.

Godric takes Henri in his lap like before, settling him in a comfortable position, although the boy is so far gone that Eric doubts he can feel much of anything. He isn't sure why Godric doesn't just drink, but he remains silent as his maker slowly strokes the boy's face, then traces the outlines of the fading bruises. Those bruises will become barely visible outlines once Godric drains him, his body restored to beauty in death.

Then, in a sudden, shocking movement, Godric bites his wrist and places it in the human's mouth. Eric stands up, horrified, struggling to find the words.

"Are you _turning_ him?" he hisses, tense and hovering on the edge of repulsion. The boy makes a lovely toy as a human, but as a vampire... Eric frowns. There is something that happens to humans who have lived as slaves to vampires, if they are turned after years of service. It's usually a subtle kind of madness, but a madness nonetheless, and they are unusually prone to suicidal behaviour--as though once they've become the incarnation of their masters, they can no longer stand their own existence.

Godric glances up, his face supremely unconcerned by Eric's horror. "No."

"Then why--"

"He was dying. You drank too much."

Eric blinks, suddenly even more confused. "I thought you wanted... Weren't we going to drain him?"

Godric's brow furrows as he watches the boy drink, those young human lips locked onto his wrist. "He deserves another chance."

"Another _chance_? Another chance at what?"

There is a long silence as the two of them listen to the beating heart of the boy, becoming stronger with every swallow, every mouthful of Godric's powerful blood. Finally, Godric looks up at Eric, an unreadable expression in his eyes, something almost reminiscent of... self-pity, if Eric didn't know better.

"At life, Eric." Gently he eases his wrist away from Henri, holding it away while the wound heals. "I believe he comes from Vassieux, it's not far from here. When he leaves, take him there and leave him on the doorstep of any house that still has a candle burning."

"When he leaves?" Eric sits back down, trying to comprehend what is happening. "I don't understand. Why are we letting him go? Look at him, he wants to die!" Colour has returned to the little human's cheeks as he lays against Godric, his head falling back so that his throat is perfectly presented, as if offering Godric back the blood he's given.

"Perhaps." Godric strokes the graceful neck, looking thoughtful. "But we can't punish him for that."

"Godric..." Eric stops, not sure what he can say next that won't risk punishment. "What if he leads them back here, once we let him go?"

"Remove the memories when you take him back. My blood in him should erase any physical evidence of where he's been. If there's anything left, we'll be gone in a few nights, anyway."

The boy is beginning to come around again now, and Eric watches as Godric murmurs quietly to him, stroking one hand down his arms, his waist, the tops of his thighs, soothing him. Feeling ill at ease, Eric turns away, ignoring them and concentrating on the flames in the fireplace, watching them dance above the logs, crackling into tiny clouds of smoke. He is startled by the sound of a soft chuckle from his maker and glances over.

Godric is looking at him, one corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. "Eric, Henri would like to know if he tasted good."

Eric hesitates, some part of him wanting to say no, to disappoint this boy who has somehow become worthy of attentions that Godric has denied countless victims. Then he meets Godric's gaze, and he sees in his maker's eyes a slight hopefulness, as thought Eric's words will extend an invitation he hasn't afforded himself yet.

He rolls to one side, propping himself up with an elbow, and nods once, out of Henri's line of sight, just for Godric. Then he says, "Very."

They look at each other for another long minute, until the other side of Godric's mouth turns up just a bit, and he smooths back the boy's hair. "You were delicious," he tells him.

Eric hears Henri ask his next question in a quiet, whisper-thin voice: "Will you keep me?"

For a moment he is struck by the look that passes over Godric's face, a sadness that seems disproportionate to the simple question. Then Godric smiles again and shakes his head.

"No, Henri." He kisses the boy's forehead chastely. "Tonight is a very special night. Tonight you get to go home."


End file.
